A Novel to Read on the Train (Romanian Literature) - Softcover

Tsepeneag, Dumitru

Softcover

ISBN 10: 162897270X ISBN 13: 9781628972702

Publisher: Dalkey Archive Press, 2021

Synopsis

A director is trying to adapt a short story he once wrote for the screen.

The story is about an isolated train station under threat by a giant eagle in a small town where rumors of war are rumbling. But the film shoot is plagued by accidents.

The actors and crew don’t understand the script. They argue over its meaning and perhaps come to identify with its subject matter a little too closely. Soon enough reality, such as it is, begins to crumble. Roman de Gare is a dreamlike and ominous novel by a great European writer―and the first novel he composed in French.

About this title

About the Authors

Dumitru Tsepeneag is one of the most innovative Romanian writers of the second half of the twentieth century. In 1975, while he was in France, his citizenship was revoked by Ceaucescu, and he was forced into exile. In the 1980s, he started to write in French. He returned to his native language after the Ceaucescu regime ended, but continues to write in his adopted language as well. He lives in France.

Alistair Ian Blyth is the translator of many works by Romanian authors, including Teodorovici’s Our Circus Presents, Lungu’s I’m An Old Commie!, and several novels by Tsepeneag, all of which are available from Dalkey Archive Press. He lives in Romania.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The window: it’s stopped raining. I look out. A peasant shepherds a flock of sheep across the village square. Leaving the bistro, Marc bumps into the peasant, who is very tall. Tall and thin. They shake hands. The switchman points in the direction of the station. They’re standing near the monument (which, for the time being, doesn’t exist). But wait, no; it seems it’s not about the station. To avoid any misunderstanding, Marc imitates a locomotive: he jerks his arms as though they were pistons, he whistles. He does this a number of times in a row. That’s enough! The other man understands him perfectly. The train enters the station. Obviously! They both laugh, holding their sides. It even makes me feel like laughing.

In front of the mirror, I’m still smiling. I ought to shave. I shrug my shoulders. I try to tie my necktie, fail, and toss the necktie on the bed.

The door opens.

MARIE: You’re going to be late.

MARIE goes straight back out again.

I need to hurry. To take long strides down the hallway.

― Action!

I take long strides down the hallway. God damn it! I stumble, waiver, almost losing my balance.

― Cut!

The director seems happy with it. He says it will do, no reason why it shouldn’t, but then, at the insistence of the cameraman, we do another take anyway. Two more, even. A totally unimportant shot. More a camera test than an actual scene.

― All right, now everyone get out of here! says the cameraman. He wants to film the empty corridor, as long as we’re here anyway.

― You get on my nerves, says the director.

Marie-Christine has a bubbly laugh. She has to be constantly keeping up appearances, the poor woman.

She claps me on both shoulders.

― Get out of the shot! yells the cameraman.

We all go downstairs. The bistro’s quite busy. I’ve brought the script with me, and tucked between the pages, the signal flag.

― He never parts with it, somebody quips.

― It’s his job, after all, says another.

They’re in the mood for a comedy routine, making me their straight man.

I arrive on the platform, out of breath, with my bootlaces still untied, carelessly dressed, and not wearing a necktie, my cap askew.

I wave my flag. The local train pulls into the station. It only has three carriages, the antiquated kind.

Two people get off the train. One is cradling a lamb. Marc greets them warmly. They shake hands. The switchman teases the lamb, which bleats.

Meanwhile, another passenger disembarks. It’s Mathieu, the singer. The train pulls out of the station. I give a respectful salute, even overdoing it slightly, flag raised. Only now do I notice Mathieu and go over to him.

STATIONMASTER: Have a good journey?

MATHIEU: Yes, very good. I even managed to have a nap . . . Almost missed my stop.

He has a shrill voice, gesticulates a lot. Just like Marc, who comes over to us now, with the two peasants in tow. The lamb bleats. Thomas approaches as well. Mathieu lights a cigarette, which he grips between his thumb and index finger.

The camera pans back. We can no longer hear what they’re saying, only see them from afar, one more part of the landscape. Now we’re looking at them from the other side of the tracks, with the station behind them, etc.

They leave the platform together and head for the bistro. I remain behind. Mathieu turns his head to look at me.

MATHIEU: Aren’t you coming?

STATIONMASTER: I’ll be there a little later . . .

MATHIEU: See you then!

STATIONMASTER: See you!

Mathieu lengthens his stride to catch up with the small group of people crossing the square. They pass close by the monument. Close by the spot where it is supposed to be. They stop for a moment, talking loudly. Mathieu stubs out the rest of his cigarette. He grinds it with his heel.

The director raises his arms.

― Let’s not go over the top, there’s only so much we can film . . . And that’s that.

― We’re not filming, we’re going round in circles.

― That’s none of your concern!

― No, it isn’t, but why are we rehearsing scenes that we can’t film?

― He’s right! What’s the point?

― We’re rehearsing because you need to rehearse. That’s why!

Two more people come over and join the group. Together they all move slowly in the direction of the bistro, which also operates as a hotel. The sign is plain to see:

THE IMPERIAL EAGLE ENSIGN

As for me, I just watch as they walk away. I stay behind on the platform, head bowed, absorbed in my own thoughts. It’s true, the whole business about the monument has been irritating everybody. Yesterday evening, to get out of the situation, the director (but is he really to blame?) said, “Who gives a damn about the monument? We can live very well without the monument.”

We can die very well without the monument, he meant . . . But in the end, why not? But then shouldn’t we also do away with the hotel sign?

― That’s not the same thing at all.

― True, all true . . .

I’ve been left alone on the platform. Holding the flag, as always. I start walking, come to a stop, look in the direction of the forest, and listen. The wind. The noise of the forest, growing louder. Stubbornly, I keep on looking straight ahead. I make a decision: I cross the tracks. The edge of the forest is very close to the railway line. But, once again, I come to a halt. As if not daring to go any farther.

The camera alone keeps going. . .

― Wait a second, I don’t really understand this bit.

― The camera alone keeps going, it moves past the stationmaster and goes searching among the trees. It’s very clear! It’s not your viewpoint this time.

― Then whose viewpoint is it?

― It’s an objective viewpoint . . .

Birdsong. Rustling leaves. Through the trees we see four men carrying a stretcher.

― Carrying a what?

― A very quick shot. After the men exit the frame, we see nothing but the trees. On the soundtrack, the noise of the forest is louder than before. But that doesn’t really concern you. Next!

― All right, agreed, but look right here . . .

― Where?

― Here. Hey, waiter, another glass! Here: “For a few seconds, we see a man walking on his own along a path in the forest. He looks carefree. At first sight, you might think he is the stationmaster, on his way back to the station.” See where?

― Yes, but read the next bit: “In reality. . .”

― What reality?

― “In reality, the stationmaster is still there, not far from the tracks, motionless, looking.”

― I don’t get it. Waiter! Where’s my damn glass!

― There’s nothing to get . . . For God’s sake! As Godard would say.

― Which Godard?

― Jean-Luc.

― I’m thirsty.

― Listen, Jean. Make an effort to understand that there’s nothing to understand.

― Nothing?

― Yes, nothing . . .

― Waiter!

― Waiter!

The director bangs his fist on top of the script, then starts to read aloud. Because of his accent, some of the words are hard to make out . . .

“At certain intervals the lamb tries to get out from underneath the table . . .” No, further on! “The men enter the bistro. They’re all talking at the same time. Jean’s good cheer adds to the general commotion.” No. He flicks to a few pages further on. They’re laughing. All these snatches of conversation are more or less drowned out by the voices of the others, all saying more or less the same thing. It’s obvious that the words themselves are of no importance.

JEAN: Where has the stationmaster gotten to?

MATHIEU: He should be here in a minute.

He pauses to take a drink, but his glass is empty.

― Listen to this bit: “The stationmaster is all alone on the platform, holding the flag. He walks a few steps, head bowed, stops, and looks in the direction of the forest. He strains to hear. The wind. The noise of the forest, growing louder.

“The stationmaster reaches a decision: he crosses the tracks. He stops. He looks in the direction of the forest. He takes another few steps. The edge of the forest is very close to the railway line, but he stops again, as if not daring to go any farther.”

― Waiter!

Now the director is standing up, holding the burgundy folder. He recites:

― “Only the camera keeps going, it moves past the stationmaster and goes searching among the trees. Birdsong. Rustling leaves. Through the trees we see four men carrying a stretcher. A very quick shot. So brief the audience might not even catch it.” He pauses. He looks at me and a strange light glimmers in his eyes. I turn away and call for the waiter again, who seems overwhelmed. He’s probably right, there’s nothing here to understand . . . And anyway, what do I care! He’s the director. He’s the boss. He continues reading.

― “Toward the end of the scene, the noise of the forest blends into a hum of voices: the voices in the bistro, growing louder and louder. Everybody is talking at the same time. A real uproar. Somebody gets up and puts a coin in the jukebox.”

The waiter finally arrives with another glass. I drain it in one go. When all is said and done, the director’s always right. And besides, he can do whatever he likes in the cutting room. In there, he has complete control. But right now it’s difficult for him to carry on reading, and he breaks off altogether. He sits down and looks around for his glass. He’s thirsty. I say the words “cutting room”, and he nods his head. He grabs hold of his left earlobe, rubs it, tugs at it until it turns red. In a more relaxed voice he asks me whether I would like another glass. I can’t say no. I call the waiter.

Mathieu, Marc and Thomas come over to our table, each holding a glass. They’re in high spirits. The only thing bothering them is the monument, which they bring up again.

― It ought to be in place already, says Mathieu.

― Stop thinking about it, replies the director, curtly.

― And what about the eagle’s cage? asks Marc.

The director keeps pulling on his ear. He doesn’t reply.

― Let’s drink, I say, conscious that the conversation could take an unpleasant turn. This obsession of yours is unhealthy, my boy, I can’t help adding.

Marc looks at me, surprised. He’s probably forgotten that he’s supposed to be playing my son. So let him take it as simple banter over a glass of wine. Even still, he plays along.

― You’re talking garbage, Dad. Isn’t he, boss? You can’t say that cage isn’t essential. Can he, boss?

But the director says nothing. With his right thumb he rubs his teeth. With his other hand he plays with his earlobe. Obviously, he can’t do this and take questions at the same time. Marie joins us. She’s wearing a floral skirt with a loose blouse, half unbuttoned. She smiles, turns a chair around and straddles it, resting her hands and chin on the backrest.

― Better order another bottle, she suggests, looking at our empty glasses. And another glass for me!

When she raises her voice, it becomes a little unpleasant, as if strangled, making it difficult for her to get the words out. This is why she’s been thinking about giving up theatre. Recently, she’s been appearing on stage less and less.

The bottle arrives. We fill our glasses and drink. Mathieu smokes. The director gazes over at Marie-Christine with renewed interest. His stare is almost childlike. After a few seconds of this, Marie-Christine turns to one side, where now she feels Marc’s gaze, who ogles her breasts. It’s obvious she feels ill at ease here. To disguise her embarrassment, she turns her chair the right way round and says she feels hungry.

We’re all hungry. The director’s hungry too. He looks at us all more kindly than before.

― We’ll have lunch. We need to keep our strength up, it’s going to be hard work this afternoon, he adds, paternally.

We don’t need to pay any attention to him. I look him straight in the eye and, keeping my face a perfect blank, say to myself, “We don’t need to pay any attention to his antics. He’s acting out a comedy all of his own, just off-screen.”

Edition details

• Publisher: Dalkey Archive Press
• Publication date: 2021
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 162897270X
• ISBN 13: 9781628972702
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 177